


Love Is the Dream.

by meditationsinemergencies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of poetry, Abortion, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Muggle London, Oral Sex, Punk Rock, References to Miscarriage, They're them but not so jaded and angry, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Sex, graphic blood depictions, graphic vomitting depictions, references to emotional abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29879280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies
Summary: In a Muggle London in the late 1970's Petunia Evans, poet and student of literature, meets Severus Snape, an electrician with a chip on his shoulder and a love for punk rock. The two form a friendship that blossoms into love while having to navigate their way through life.
Relationships: Petunia Evans Dursley/Severus Snape
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: International Witches Day





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [International_Witches_Day](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/International_Witches_Day) collection. 



> Author’s Note:
> 
> Hello, Reader! Please, heed the tags before you read this piece, and, if you choose to read it, do keep this in mind: It is said that no two stories are the same, and that applies here in Petunia’s story. This piece is my take on her experience. Some of it is fictional, some of it I pulled directly from my own experience, and while some of it may be inaccurate or seem inaccurate, we must keep in mind that not everyone reacts the same to pregnancy or abortion—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. 
> 
> There is the possibility that you are not in the pro-choice camp, and, if that is the case, this story is not for you. If you are sometimes pro-choice, please understand that Petunia’s reasoning for having an abortion may not seem justified to you, it may not seem “good enough”, and I ask that, if you believe this to be true, you do not leave negative comments. 
> 
> Overall, this is a love story between two people: a poet and a punk electrician in the late 1970’s. They fall in love and life happens. 
> 
> It is my belief, that no one views abortion as a light-topic, no one approaches it as if it isn’t serious or difficult. However, it is imperative that we talk about it and the various experiences concerning it, even when it’s in the middle of a fairly fluffy love story.
> 
> If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. I appreciate it endlessly. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Content Warnings: 
> 
> Emotional abuse (not in the primary relationship), reference to miscarriage, reference to abusive parents, unplanned pregnancy, abortion, graphic scenes concerning blood, graphic scene concerning vomiting, explicit sexual content
> 
> \---
> 
> This fic would not exist without KrumPuffer; I am so thankful and grateful for you and for reading this when it was nothing but dialogue and random snippets. I would not be the writer I am without you. You're my rock. Thank you thank you thank you. 
> 
> This fic would not exist without adavison; I don't know what I would do without you constantly fixing my tense issues and other dumb mistakes. Thank you for always letting me talk things through when I'm worrying over my writing and this and that. Thank you for being such a great friend and partner in writing. 
> 
> \--
> 
> The title comes from the Buzzcocks' song "Everybody's Happy Nowadays".

**__ **

*******

**_Ways To Say I Love You_ **

_The moments before I sleep,_

_with his arm, heavy and thick, thrown_

_around my middle, his fingers curved_

_against my skin, I find that I am_

_no more comforted than_

_when my sister, bright and young,_

_would find her way into my bed_

_lonely in her glory_

_and no more comforted than_

_when my mother and father_

_would pat my shoulder, squeeze my arm_

_as if it were the proper way_

_for any of them to say: I love you._

***

Part of her, something deep inside her, something that crawled within the marrow of her bones, seemed to thrive off of her sorrow, her insecurities. It didn’t matter that she was no longer living with her parents, that the loveliness of her sister wasn’t looming over her, that she had things that were solely hers and hers alone, there were still days and afternoons and nights where a presence inside her was all-consuming and left her almost immobilized with doubt. 

It was why, despite having been at university for two years, she had very few people she’d call friends. It was why she allowed herself to be in an on-again-off-again relationship with a man who was constantly cheating on her, and why she found her only true company in novels, collections of poetry, and in her own writing. 

Outside of herself, Petunia Evans felt fairly alone, fairly misunderstood. She allowed herself to labour under the illusion that her purpose—and thus her priority—was to please those around her. There were few things she had done for herself, and her decision to go to university was one of those things; her parents felt it would be best for her to just get married, to get a simple job and save up some money until then. Petunia, however, had insisted upon attending school. Her father, who was a bit softer towards her than her mother, agreed to pay for her education and her housing, seeing that she maintained a job and kept her grades up. She was happy to oblige these things. Granted, he wasn’t pleased when she went with the decision to study literature, but she convinced him that she could simply go into teaching once she graduated—a steady, common, always necessary job.

Petunia, unlike many of her peers, didn’t party, didn’t partake in recreational drugs, and didn't often drink. To her, being on her own, even with her father footing the bill, was all she needed. She felt great relief to be away from her mother, as well as her sister. 

The relationship with her sister was complicated. She loved her; of course, she did, but she was constantly frustrated with her, constantly jealous and bitter towards her. Something about her little sister, Lily, appealed far more to their mother. Lilyshined whereas Petunia was dull. There were many nights where Petunia had tried to figure out where she had gone wrong, what had she done to cause her mother to hold such disdain towards her; she concluded that it wasn’t anything she did, it simply was.

When Lily was born, Petunia had just been two, but it didn’t take long for Petunia to figure out that their mother treated them differently. It didn’t matter that Petunia did well in school or was praised by her teachers, Lily had made this friend and that friend, Lily had drawn a remarkably imaginative dragon, Lily pretended she was a witch for hours on end—all of these things delighted Mrs Evans, leaving whatever it was Petunia did to be simply less than. 

As they got older, the separation between the two sisters was seemingly as natural as anything. There was no cruelty between them, especially not on Lily’s end, there was just nothing really there. Their mother had driven a wedge between them, and whether or not Lily knew that, Petunia was unaware.

Most of Petunia’s days were routine and orderly, and she preferred them as such. 

A few months into her first term, she, by chance, while doing her Thursday evening shopping at the market, met Vernon Dursley. At first, Petunia was simply enamoured with him. 

He was a big man—domineering in a way you simply couldn’t ignore. He towered over her in height and width; he had been a boxer in his school days, and his form remained the same from his years of training. He had a thick moustache, and dark brown neatly cut hair that looked as if it would have curled if he'd let it. 

Somehow, Vernon wedged his way into her conversation with the butcher, and he suggested she buy this cut, not that cut, of meat, telling her that the butcher was trying to cajole her into spending more of her money. Whether or not that was the case, she didn’t know. 

Despite having known one another for mere minutes, Vernon asked her out to dinner and, having spent most of her life as a wallflower, Petunia immediately accepted. 

He was loud, often quite charming, well-dressed, and, while not brilliant when it came to literature, he was a smart businessman, and this she supposed mattered a lot more than whether or not he’d read Shakespeare. 

Their relationship was what Petunia would consider nice for a while, and then he began running around on her. 

He never really tried to hide it, and he slowly became more aggressive in his behaviours

— never quite physically but close enough to concern her. After six months, she broke up with him, but when he came crawling back to her with flowers and chocolate and champagne, promising to not treat her so poorly again, she accepted his apology, only for the cycle to begin again within the next month. 

Petunia knew that this wasn’t a good relationship, she knew that he wasn’t a good man, but she also knew that he wasn’t a horrible man: he could be a lot worse, she always told herself, and she knew that her parents would approve of him. He came from money. He had a great job. He was the type of man who would steadily climb up the ladder. 

What infuriated Petunia the most about Vernon was that it was so very evident that he didn’t _like_ women. Oh, yes, he enjoyed fucking them. He enjoyed getting off as he corned her in his bedroom, his voice low—worse than yelling, telling her how great he was. He never explicitly insulted her. He never told her how unattractive she was or how the other women were better or how she was the one he’d choose to marry because she was just pretty enough, because her family came from money, because she was smart enough to play the game but malleable enough to be manipulated; he would simply tell her how lucky she was to have him, how lucky she was to have him want her over all the others. 

Petunia didn’t know why she put up with it; she supposed she was lonely, she supposed it was because no one had ever chosen her, in the end, over others. Her sister had always been put first, and, despite Vernon’s insistence on sleeping with other women, he always came back to her at the end of it all, always wanted her to share a bed with when he was tired or sick or in need, and she supposed that was better than nothing at all. 

When she met Severus Snape, she had just broken up with Vernon yet again. After nine months, he'd pushed her to the edge when he told her that a woman he had slept with was pregnant. The notion that Vernon was going to have a child with some random woman he’d been sleeping with casually made her sick. 

A few weeks later, Vernon came back to her, as he always did, begging for her to forgive him, claiming that the woman, fortunately, he had said, had suffered a miscarriage. 

Petunia wondered briefly how he could possibly say that was a fortunate thing to happen. Had he had to experience any of it at all? Why did he get to tell her if this was a good thing or a bad thing? He said, offhandedly, later in that same conversation that he was grateful that he wasn’t a woman. 

She’d let him into her flat when he'd begun to grovel and they ended up at the table, him sitting in a chair across from her, “I’m so glad I’m not a woman. God. Seems terrible. No wonder you all are so moody." He scoffed before muttering, "Women.” 

Her hands were wrapped around a teacup and she baulked at him, “What?”

He nodded, his nose turned up as if something stunk, “Fuck. If we get married, I hope to God we don’t have a daughter. For starters, what would I do with a daughter?" He laughed at this, as if imagining himself trying to handle a small girl. 

He continued, "And secondly, I’d have to pretend that she was going to have some great successful pro-women’s lib life, when, really, she’s just a girl. Just a girl.”

“Are you seriously saying this to me right now? You...you need to go.” She stood up from the table and gestured towards the door.

“What?” He stood up as quickly as she did and stepped towards her, putting his hand on her waist, “That’s not how this goes, Petunia. I’m here and you take me back and we make love and…” His voice drug on as if he were bored with the game he believed them to be playing. 

She shook her head, her lips tight, “No. Go. You need to go.”

He gave her a look of disgust, his hand still sitting on her waist as if expecting her to change her mind, as if she was no match for his charms. 

“Now, Vernon," she demanded, her voice soft but low, authoritative. 

Silently, he grabbed his coat, and without a word, left her flat, slamming the door behind him. 

He had rung her a few days later, but she hadn’t heard from him otherwise, and this she was grateful for. 

That had been a week ago, and she was feeling quite good about it all, about truly leaving him this time. Her mood, however, was soured when she'd woken up to find that the electricity in the living room and kitchen weren't working. In her pyjamas and robe, she hurried down to the office to let her landlord, Horace Slughorn, know of the issue. 

As it was early on a Saturday morning, she didn't expect anyone to be out to work that day, and she had already resigned herself to having to go out for her morning tea. 

Before she'd even gotten dressed there was a knock on her door: an electrician and her landlord. 

Horace looked very old and very small and quite plump next to the man next to him, who grimaced a bit when Horace slapped him on the shoulder before turning to leave the electrician with her and to his job. 

Within a few moments of meeting Severus, Petunia was certain that she wasn’t going to like him, and she suspected that he didn’t like her either, but for very different reasons—the shotty wiring in her flat, for instance, and the fact that it was seven in the morning on a Saturday. 

Her reason, however, was due to her little sister. Severus and her sister were friends, or, rather, had been friends or acquaintances or something like that. Whatever it was, his association with her sister immediately turned her off. It only took a split second, but if someone knew her sister, liked her sister, adored her sister, then likely they’d find Petunia lacking. 

This wasn’t something she was particularly bitter about anymore, it was just a fact, and she simply didn’t have the time or energy to put any effort into convincing anyone that she was anything other than less than Lily. Petunia had spent most of her adolescence trying to prove that she was worth something to her parents, but, if anything, she was just a bother, just their other daughter. 

The man was quiet as he began to work, and she found herself unsure of what to do. Her natural inclination was to offer him tea but she had no electricity and thus no stove to boil water, so the offer would be pointless. Before she could find something to busy herself with, he spoke. 

"Evans," he began, holding onto her surname. "Mmm...any relation to Lily Evans?” 

He wasn’t looking at her as he spoke, he had taken off the socket in the main room of her flat and was currently jabbing a tool in there, peering into the hole in the wall with a torch. He had already switched off the electricity to her flat, and due to the dreary London morning, grey permeated throughout the room. She moved into the kitchen for a candle and matches, striking one, and placing the candle on the end table by the sofa, sitting beside the light. 

“Ummm. Yes. She’s...she’s my younger sister. Do you know her?” Petunia's voice was timid and unsure. 

She could see him shrug. “Yeah. Sort of. Eh, not really. We were friends for a bit.” 

Petunia, two years older than her sister, thought back to the people her sister brought around, she certainly would have remembered someone like him, but, then again it had been awhile. 

From the look of him, his long black hair, the ripped and dirty black trousers, the jean jacket, the smell of smoke that seemed to permeate off of him, if her sister had been friends with him, she would never have brought him around.

“She just got married this past summer,” she said, sitting down at the end of the sofa, leaning against the armrest, watching him work. 

He glanced over his shoulder, “Potter?” 

“James. Yes. Do you know him?” 

He nodded, “Yeah. He and I never quite got on in school.” 

She eyed him curiously and felt her original disdain for him ease-up. She wasn’t over-the-moon about James either, but her opinion didn’t matter anyway. He turned away again and began muttering to himself. 

“What’s the problem?” she leaned forward a bit, interested in what was going on.

“Shotty wiring. Even in these swanky flats. They’re just old bloody buildings that have been given a facelift on the outside. The wiring is still old as shit and, in this case, not properly done to begin with.” She grew silent and listened to him humming and then swearing to himself. After a while, he stood up and, without a word, left her flat. Within minutes the lights came back on and then he returned.

“Well, that should do it for now. I need to come back and fix the others. I don’t have the things I need on me. I’ll have to run by the shop. Monday morning alright? I don’t really want to come back on the weekend. I only came as a favour to Horace.” 

  
Horace always seemed to be owed something by someone, so it wasn’t a surprise to her when he had known an electrician that could come in extremely early on a Saturday morning. He was the type of person you wanted to be in with, the type of person to have on your good side. 

She pursed her lips together in thought, “I won’t be here in the morning. I have class and then work. More than likely, I won’t be in until that evening. Do you mind?” 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugged, “I suppose it’s alright. Why would you expect me to want to go home and eat dinner?”

Instinctively, her brow furrowed at his sarcasm and she quipped back, “Perhaps the building will burn down from all the shit wiring that afternoon, and you can cook your dinner over that fire then, eh?”

He barked out a rough laugh, “Oi. I was only joking. I can’t afford to eat,” he winked at her as he began to leave. “See ya Monday then. Six?”

Nodding she gave him a small wave as he shut the door to her flat, smiling to herself as she felt her heart leap a touch at the thought of seeing him again. 

***

When Severus left her flat that morning, he sort of wished he could go right back in. He wasn’t certain what it was, but he liked her. Perhaps it was the connection to Lily, a connection to someone who knew him. No, that likely wasn’t it. He didn’t know what it was. He just had liked her and had liked being around her. That was that. 

Slipping a cigarette out of its pack, he placed it in his mouth and lit it while sitting in his beat-up VW. He sighed to himself and thought of how it would have been nice to have actually had something to do that morning. Some reason that he couldn’t have come in and done electrical work on a Saturday morning, but what would he have done? 

For the most part, he had isolated himself from the rest of the world after his mother’s death which had left him parentless. Not that they had been much of parents in that regard anyway. The closest thing he had to a parent was his boss, Albus Dumbledore, who really wasn’t that great either, but Albus had been better to Severus than either of his parents had been. 

He cranked up his car and the piece of shit hesitated, and he realized that if that woman had looked out of her window right then, she would have seen him sitting in his car, looking morose and struggling to start it up. This embarrassed him, and he turned the key again, hoping the engine would turn over. He had flooded it, and so he had to sit there and wait. 

He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the headrest, frustrated. He told himself not to complain about that damn thing. That it was a gift from his mother, an odd, “Look, Sevvy. I’ve gone and left you with no family, but here. Have this shitty car, darling. Here’s also a very small amount of money your father had hidden away. Who knew? It could have been quite helpful when you were younger, but oh well.” 

He imagined this and felt immense guilt for thinking of his mother in such a petty way. He was grateful, there was no denying that, as he wouldn’t have been able to afford a car on his own; he had been left with a small amount of money, which would have been small to many, but for him it made a nice addition to his fairly poor savings. 

Severus had the idiotic notion that he could save up enough money to attend university, probably the same one where the woman he’d just helped went; he glanced up at her window, grateful to not see her standing there. He’d like to attend, like to study chemistry, like to have a better job than the one he had. But, he knew that he was lucky to have a job. To have met Albus at such a critical time in his life, to have the job he had, which was steady and constant and would always be a necessity. He didn’t want it though. He didn’t want to be so tired at the end of each day. He didn’t want to rely on cigarettes and the occasional drink to get him by. He wanted to go to class and then go to shows and get pissed because he was happy not because he wasn’t. 

Feeling confident he could crank the car up now, he tried again, and was relieved when it cranked up—he finally left the curb, leaving her, whoever she was— _Petunia_ , he reminded himself, behind until Monday evening. 

A bit dimly but also with some lightness, he thought that at least he had that to look forward to. She was pretty and fairly nice, and he didn’t mind being in the presence of someone who was pretty and nice. Who wouldn’t mind that? 

Feeling a bit more cheerful, thinking of Monday, he stopped into a greasy spoon restaurant, where the owner, an older woman, always gave him free coffee after he’d fixed some of her equipment for her. He figured he could allow himself a nice breakfast. He had after all been working on a Saturday morning


	2. Chapter 2

**_(Who Is The Raven?)_ **

_ A raven sat on the ledge of my window _

_ yesterday morning, brushing against the frost _

_ —the kettle screamed at me to get up, to get moving. _

_ Instead, I stayed in bed and stared _

_ at the bird. Imagining what it would feel like _

_ for him to peck at the mushy warmth of my heart. _

_ Is it you? Are you the raven?  _

  
  


***

Petunia hadn’t intended to ask him to stay for dinner, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt considering he was at her house and it was past six, and she had to cook for herself anyway. 

While he replaced the socket in her bedroom, by her nightstand, she threw together dinner. Something simple. She had a bottle of wine, and it seemed enjoyable to share it with him—assuming he would stay for dinner.

Coming into the kitchen, he had his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket and he leaned against the frame of the door. “I’m all done. You should be good to go.”

She stirred the noodles in the boiling water, she didn’t need to, she just needed something to do with her hands. She liked him, for whatever reason. Liked his presence, his demeanour, and she found he made her nervous in a way that she could only categorize as good nerves.    
  
“Would you be interested in staying for dinner? I’ve got a bottle of wine and…” she trailed off as their eyes met. 

  
He nodded a small, almost unnoticeable smile on his face, “Sure. That seems nice. It’s not because I made you feel guilty though, is it? About me coming over to work after work?”

She shook her head, “No. No. It just seemed polite and, well, nice to have company.”

Silence fell in the kitchen, he left momentarily to gather his tools and put them down in his car. He came back up, washed his hands in the bathroom. After they ate, she went to pour him a glass of wine, but instead, he picked up the glass, the stem thin and fragile in his large hand, and he laughed at himself.

“Look at me. I look so fucking stupid holding a glass of wine. It doesn't exactly fit my image, does it?”

She shook her head, “I think the glass is what’s probably silly. Not you. I mean, why do we insist we drink wine out of these?” 

He shrugged. “No idea.” 

“How do you propose we drink it then? Teacups? Coffee mugs?”

“Straight from the bottle?”

She laughed at this comment and shrugged before pressing the bottle to her lips and taking a sip. She then handed it across the table to him where he took a sip, as well. 

This is how their first evening together was spent, passing a bottle of sauvignon blanc across the table. Unrespectable. Unsophisticated. But undeniably wonderful. 

Petunia didn’t drink that often and the wine quickly went to work. She found herself being extremely talkative and giggly. Several times, their fingers would graze as they passed the bottle back and forth. 

Finally, she turned it up and found that it was empty. She looked at him and pouted. “Well, that’s no fun. I don’t think I have anything else.” 

She got up from the table and crouched down underneath her counter, looking through things. She sighed and sat down on the floor, her back against the wooden cabinet. “Nothing. Just some vermouth and bitters. ” 

Raising her hands in the air she said with a shrug of her shoulders, “I don’t even like martinis or old fashioned, my stupid old boyfriend did. What a twat he was. I don’t know why I still have them.” 

  
Severus’ eyebrows furrowed and he got up from the seat and sat next to her on the floor. He stretched his legs out and in her silly state, she mimicked him, stretching hers out. 

“Oh. You’re quite tall.” She then tapped her barefoot against his black workbook and said, “And you have such big feet. You’re so thin though. Long and lanky.” She laughed at herself and then pressed a hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m drunk. I’m so stupid.”

He looked over at her and shook his head, “You’re not stupid. I am tall. I do have large feet. I am thin. And, you are, in fact, drunk. Everything you’ve said is one hundred per cent accurate, up until you said you were stupid.”

“Tell me more about your studies at the university,” he asked, diverting her attention away from her own self-awareness. 

“Oh. I just read a lot of books and write a lot of poe-ummmmms.” The way she said the word poem made her laugh and he, too, joined in.

Cocking an eyebrow he asked, “Poe-ummmmm? Is that the same as a poem?” 

She nodded, “Usually.”

“You write them? A lot?”

Nodding enthusiastically she said, “Oh. Far too many. I have several in the University’s literary magazine. Oooooh. Isn’t that fancy of me? No. It’s not. They’re dark and depressing usually, but I am who I am, Severus. I can’t change it.” 

His voice was so deep, and in her drunken state, she found that she adored it. “Yes, for someone who looks so bubbly, you do seem a bit deep and a touch melancholy.”

Her head hit his shoulder and she sighed, “Deep. Melancholy. Those are good alternatives for depressing. That’s what Vernon always said.  _ You’re so depressing, Petunia. What could you possibly have to be sad about? Blah blah blah _ . He never read much of my writing anyhow. I stopped letting him.”

When he spoke, she could feel the vibration from his voice, her head still resting on his shoulder, “He sounds like a fucking prat.” 

She just nodded against his shoulder, “You’re not a prat, are you?” 

She looked up at him when she asked, and he shook his head, “No. I’m poor as fuck, so I’m just your regular arsehole.” He gave her a weak smile and she laughed before shutting her eyes.

“Let’s get you to bed, Petunia.”

Again, she just nodded in agreeance against him. 

She felt his hand on her arm, and he gently pulled her up off the floor. Somewhere along the line, he managed to lead her, giggling and sighing and yawning into her bed. He thanked her, rested a blanket upon her, turned out the lights, and left her flat.

When she awoke the next morning, her head was pounding, her throat was as dry as a dessert, but she felt happier than usual. 

A note was on the kitchen table:

_ Petunia, _

_ Thank you for dinner last night. I hope you don’t feel too bad this morning.  _

_ If you’d like, we could get coffee on Thursday afternoon. Five? Cafe on the corner of 7th and Chesterfield. No need to confirm. If you’re there you’re there. _

_ Drink some water today.  _

_ Severus _

***

"I wouldn't have ever pegged you as Lily's older sister,” Severus said, sitting across from her in the small coffee shop right around the corner from the university. When she'd arrived at five to five, he wasn't there, and she immediately felt panicked. Maybe she'd gotten the time or the location wrong or perhaps he'd written that in his own alcohol-induced state and, upon further reflection, realized he didn't want to see her. She had been excited to come until Vernon came around right before she left. He kept pestering her about where she was going, why she was dressed a certain way, and he left making her feel insecure and stupid like usual. 

She was only at the table in the corner in the back for a few minutes before she saw him walking in. His hair was pulled back. He looked tired, but something about that look suited him, and she found herself excited, again. 

When he spoke her sister's name, Petunia rolled her eyes and a sneer formed on her lips. "Why's that? Because she's so… what? Pretty and perfect."

"No, I mean, I suppose she might be those things but I meant because she's boring. She's a cliche. She's everything she's supposed to be. It's insubstantial. She follows all the rules and trends and fads and, no offence as she's your sister."

Petunia shrugged, "No. That's...that's Lily. But, Severus, I want to be that way. I'm just not as good at it... internally. I'm not okay with it, but I do it because I'm  _ supposed  _ to.

"Says who?" He took a sip from his cup. To her he looked so elegantly cool, a cigarette in one hand, his cup in the other. She liked looking at him. He was striking and severe all while being extremely interesting. He contrasted greatly with the room. The soft grey walls of the coffee shop with its wooden floors and crisp tables.

"Society? My parents?"

"Pfft. Fuck society. Do what feels right. Be curious. Be ambitious. Be whatever you desire."

"Are you what you desire to be?"

He smiled wickedly, "You're saucy." He laughed, then, "Yes and no. I am, like everyone else, a slave to consumerism. I've got to work. Did I dream of being an electrician? No. But it's a job for now, and I'm saving money to go to school. In between working, I get to listen to what I want and read what I want. I dress how I want. I smoke when I want. I think what I want. Look, I'm fucked up. We're  _ all _ fucked up. I just know it, and that's freeing."

He leaned forward and, with one of his long fingers, tapped the side of her head, just above her ear, gently. "You've got some dark stuff up there. You're not a cliche despite how you present yourself with your blonde curls. Your cashmere cardigan. Your posh posture. You're just as screwy and scared as I am. And, look, most of us won't admit it. You admit it, at least to yourself, at least in your writing."

Scoffing she said, "You come into my flat, you fix my shotty wiring, you eat my dinner and drink my wine, meet me for coffee, insult how I look and what, you know me now?"

"Whoa. Whoa. For starters, I did not insult your looks…"

"There's nothing wrong with good posture. Yours could do with some improvement."

"Yeah…" and wanting to get back to the focus said, " Well, I read some of your writing.” He shrugged as he said this as if it was just another passing moment, nothing significant. 

She wracked her brain for a moment: Had she mentioned writing? She couldn’t really recall, but they had drunk an awful lot of wine that night, and now she seemed to vaguely remember telling him about her writing. Had she let him read her things? Surely not.

“How so?” her tone was calm, she didn’t want to seem suddenly insecure about it.

He took a sip of his coffee, swallowing before replying, “The literary collections are in the uni library. You told me you were in them." 

She scolded herself. "Wha’? But, how did you get in there? You don't even attend.” 

Again, he shrugged, “I just walked in. No one stopped me.”

He picked up his cigarette and leaned in towards her, she could smell the faintness of either cologne or aftershave—a musky cedar. She liked the smell, cigarettes and cedar, and she tried not to breathe in too deeply, scared to take in too much of him at once. 

He was close to her now, and she straightened her posture at his proximity. “You write some dark things, Petunia Evans. You just need to give it up. This…” He waved his hand towards her, his cigarette ash lightly dusting her top, “persona you wear? It’s just that. A persona.” 

  
She felt him scoot his chair forward, as his knees knocked against hers, and he was just a touch closer to her than before, “Take it off.” His voice, a low rusty baritone, sent a chill up her back, and she found herself warm and flushed, burning with a rush of coolness. 

Raising her eyes from her cup of tea, she met him, in almost a whisper she replied, “I don’t know how.” 

He simply nodded, his eyebrows raised a bit, telling her that she did know how or that, if she didn’t know yet, she would. Petunia was overwhelmed with a desire to kiss him, to taste the nicotine on his tongue, to smell the day-old cologne on his neck. 

***

Leaving the cafe, they walked side by side, probing one another with questions. “Do you listen to music?”

She laughed, “Yes. Who doesn’t listen to music?”

“More people than you think. I go into people’s homes to fix their electrical shit and loads of arseholes don’t have record players or radios or anything. They’re all obsessed with their tellies; it’s bloody disgusting. Anyway, what do you like? Don’t tell me disco. If you fucking like disco, I’ll leave right now.” 

Again, she laughed and stopped walking, placing her hands on her hips, “Well, now that I know how to get rid of you. Yes. Disco. Lots of it.  _ Loads  _ of it.” She smiled wickedly at him, and he threw his arms in the air and turned around, walking away in feigned disgust. 

She continued to walk, egging him on. Finally, she heard him catch up to her with a quiet chuckle. When they had resumed their original pace she said, “I like some Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin. But… I mostly listen to The Beatles.”

He snorted and kicked a rock on the sidewalk, muttering under his breath, “The Beatles…” 

Suddenly, she felt his hand grab hers, and they paused their walking. He held their joined hands near his mouth like a microphone, and he crooned into it. The warmth of his mouth was pleasant against her hand, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of pure delight at his performance. 

“Oh yeah, I'll tell you somethin', I think you'll understand. When I say that somethin', I want to hold your haaaaaaaaaaaaand.” He held onto the last word playfully and dramatically before dropping her hand, and exclaiming, “What rubbish! Absolute twats, they are.” 

Their fingers fell apart, and her hand felt suddenly quite empty. Glancing back up at him, he was grinning wickedly at her.

She scrunched up her face in disbelief, "Why is that rubbish? Isn't that, I don’t know, sweet?"

"It's corny and cliche. Just a way to make money. All of the early stuff. Again, rubbish.” 

“Someone must not have loved you as a child, Severus. You’re heartless sod.” She grinned back at him, and he shrugged as if to concede to what she was saying.


	3. Chapter 3

**_On Calluses_ **

_ Just for a moment, I felt the calluses on your palm _

_ and I wondered if there were more I couldn't feel,  _

_ more along the length of your fingers,  _

_ more on your other hand,  _

_ more inside the valves of your beating heart,  _

_ along the length of your spine;  _

_ coarse and thick on the soft tissue of your brain.  _

_ I wondered what it would mean to press my lips to them all. _

_ What it would mean to show you the one callus I have:  _

_ it's on my middle finger, where I hold my pen oddly.  _

_ Instead of more coarse and thick skin, unfeeling and tough, _

_ I just have clogged arteries and bone spurs and damaged tissue. _

***

Over the course of a few weeks, Severus found himself wanting to share more with Petunia. Something he wasn't used to. He'd told her about his parents. He'd told her about his complicated relationship with Dumbledore and his job, about what he wanted to do in school. He'd introduced her to music and explained why the punk scene was so important to him. 

He found himself completely in awe of the way she thought. How she took everything in, how she processed ideas, how timid she was to put stock in anything other than herself. A few times, they'd sat outside in the cold weather and she'd read to him passages from books she was reading or lines from poems she liked. She, like him, enjoyed the cold weather, and he found they could sit in it for long stretches of time. As she read, he would watch the warm air escape her mouth, making plumes of breath in the air. He liked this. It was as if he was watching her words, her voice, take a physical form, if even just for a moment. Often as they read, their arms would be pressed together or her knee would rest just barely against his thigh. 

While they had spent a lot of time together since he'd first met her, and even though he did like her, their relationship hadn't moved past platonic. Part of this was due to the fact that both were clearly reserved. She kept part of herself hidden, as did he. He also knew that he had feelings for her—it was evident in the way he thought of her when he woke, his desire to share everything with her, even the mundane, how desperate he wanted to feel her graze her skin against his, but to acknowledge those feelings were to acknowledge that he was uncomfortable with them, and in that he ran the risk of hurting her and of hurting himself. Something he didn't want for either of them. 

In a moment of weakness, he suggested she come to a show at The Underground with him, a small bar that served primarily as a venue for punk bands. Usually, Severus went to shows alone. Perfectly happy to observe from the back, appreciate whoever was playing, have some drinks and maybe talk to some friends or maybe find himself snogging a girl or maybe preferring to talk to no one and to go home alone. 

He didn't know who was playing that night, but he wanted to go. He wanted to go with her. 

"There's a bar. The Underground. They have punk bands. You should go." He said this fiddling with the fray on the cuff of his denim, as they sat on a wall outside the university.

"Are you asking me to go?" She'd looked up from her book. 

"Nah. I'm saying if you want to go." He shrugged, avoiding her eye. He didn't want her to feel obligated to go with him. He just wanted her to go. He wanted to see her in that atmosphere. He wanted to see her anywhere, really, but especially there. 

"Okay. I don't know where it is. Pick me up?"

"Sure. 8?" 

She hopped off the wall and turned towards him and nodded, "Alright. See you then."

Watching her go he felt elated.

***

Out of the corner of her eye, Petunia glanced over at him. Severus had a cigarette dangling from his lips, his left hand tapping his knee rhythmically to the music, his right hand haphazardly on the steering wheel, fingers barely touching the edges of it. How he was managing to properly drive with all that going on, she didn’t know. She shifted in the seat, smoothing out her skirt nervously, timidly, unsurely. 

Why she had agreed to go to this show with him she had no idea. 

As the side of the tape ended, the inside of the car quickly became a mellow quiet, the gentle rumble of the tires on the road, the whirring of the heat from the vents, working hard to warm them. As he went to flip the tape, he looked at her and grinned. It was a mischievous and knowing look.

“Relax,” his tone was commanding and reassuring in one. It wasn’t commanding in the way Vernon’s tone often was. This was a suggestion that was  _ for _ her. She laughed at his remark and shook her head in feigned annoyance. Clearing her throat she replied, “You think that’s just so easy?”

He sat back in the seat, his left hand, once on his knee, was now resting on the gear shift, which in the smallness of the car, put his finger much closer to her thigh. For a moment, it seemed as if she could feel the heat radiating from him. “No,” he said clipped before pausing. “No. It’s not. I know that. But you should try to relax. Lighten up. Ease up.” She watched as he effortlessly turned the steering wheel, manoeuvring the car into a parking spot. Petunia eyed the building, the small bar; she eyed the people outside. They all looked like him. A bit dirty and grungy—free and vexed. 

“Let’s go in," he said, turning towards her and turning off the engine.

She stared forward for a few beats and then looked down at her lap, "No. Take me back home."

  
This change seemed sudden, even to her, so she wasn't surprised when he sounded a bit put out. “What? Bloody hell, Petunia. Why?”

“Look at me!” her voice cracked with insecurity. 

“What about you?” His brows drew in with a question. 

She groaned and balled her hands into fists, frustration permeating within. "Why did you invite me?”

Shrugging he replied with an annoying “Why not?”

Her eyes shut in lieu of glaring at him and in a low voice she said, “That’s not a goddamn answer.”

“I…” he began but she cut him, opening her eyes and glancing at him. 

“This is humiliating. You… you rail against everything I am. Everything I’m from. So will everyone else here. I am embarrassing. I’ll embarrass you. What did you say weeks ago? I'm posh."

“I didn't say that. I said your posture was and that's not a bad thing, as you pointed out. And you don't and never would embarrass me. Have you seen me? Sheesh. Relax. Do you want to go in or not?” 

She sighed and shut her eyes again, leaning her head against the seat. She did want to go in. She wanted to be with him tonight, be near him. “No. I can’t.” 

“Okay. What do you want to do, then?"

“Just take me to the bus station. I’ll take it home. Then you can come back.”

“I don’t give a fuck about this,” he turned his body to face her, his back pressing against the door, his long legs looked absurd crammed into the compact area and she laughed. He gave her a questioning look. 

“You look so silly. You’re far too tall for such a small car.” 

He let out a hard breath through his nose, “Well, I’m not a spoiled brat with a rich daddy to buy me a bigger nicer vehicle.” His voice was a mixture of things and she couldn't tell if he was trying to be cruel or if he was hurt or if he was just teasing or perhaps all three. 

“You’re such an arsehole.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“You still look silly. Like a cellar spider trying to fit into a matchbox. Limbs poking out every which way.” 

He sighed, "What do you want to do if we aren’t going in?” 

She turned to him and looked him full in the face. “Tell me why you invited me here tonight.”

“Fuck, you can’t just let it go, can you?” she could sense his temper flaring up, and she liked it. She wanted to fuel it. She wasn’t scared of him or intimidated by him like she was with Vernon. She has stopped arguing with Vernon long ago, she used to poke at him, try to get something out of him without any emotion, but it became too volatile. 

Severus, however, oozed emotions, despite how hard he tried to conceal them. She knew what he wouldn’t say. She knew he liked her, wanted to be around her, but his unwillingness to admit it irked her—leaving her to pick at it.

“Why do you like me, Severus?"

“Come on….” he sounded as if he was almost pleading with her not to push the subject. 

“Look at those other women. Look at me. I don’t fit the bill, Severus. I curled my hair and put on a skirt and sweater to come to a punk show. I ironed and everything. Do you even know how to iron?”

“No. I don’t even own an iron.”

She laughed at his admission and she felt his gaze on her, felt heat climbing up underneath the front of her sweater to her neck. 

“I’m not good for you. I shouldn’t even have asked you here.”

“Who are you to tell me what’s good for me? Don’t be so bloody arrogant.”

“I know me. I know girls like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. Fuck.” He readjusts again, putting both his hands on the wheel, wrapping his fingers around it. He let his head hang for a moment before releasing his left hand from the wheel and shifting the car into drive. “Let’s just go. I’ll take you home.” 

Before his foot released the gas, Petunia opened the car door and got out without a word. She didn’t look back at him in the car. Instead, she pulled up the collar to her coat, blocking out the cold wind, and walked towards the entrance of the bar. 

She couldn’t hear anything at all but the clicking of her low-heels against the pavement until she head his door slam shut behind her, heard someone walking quickly behind her. She still didn’t turn to look at him, even as she entered the building. It was dark and loud, hazy with the smoke of cigarettes. Her ears felt muffled with the loudness of the band playing. 

She can’t even hear the singer over the guitar and drums, but, despite it all, she felt exhilarated by the energy in the room. She felt a hand on the small of her back, and she shifted quickly away from his touch; she knew it was his. Trying to leave him behind, she pushed her way through the crowd of people and ordered a beer at the bar—the man behind it eying her with interest. She knew she stood out, and that, somehow, excited her even more. 

***

Severus wanted to tell her what he liked about her, why he wanted her there. He wanted to tell her that he has longed to kiss her since that night in her kitchen, but he couldn't shake the feeling that love was a joke, a con, a fucking scheme. 

His parents didn't love one another. 

They just fought and yelled. They just saw him as a burden. 

He wanted to tell her that he didn't believe in love, but he now knew that was a lie. He knew because he felt it when she laughed at his deadpan humour, how she pulled her hair up absentmindedly to let it immediately fall again when she was reading to herself, and how all he wanted was for her to see how big and bright she was, even though she believed that she was small and dim.

He couldn't possibly tell her that she'd break him—that he was fragile and scared and so close to bubbling over but because he spent his whole life believing love was pointless that now that he was in it, he was horrified. Horrified because it was going to hurt no matter what happens. And, he was going to have to eat his words when he admitted that so many of those fucking The Beatles songs she loved were onto something

He followed behind her, trying to catch up, and when she pulled away from him in the room, his heart sank a bit, but he was willing to play her game. He knew she was mad because he was unable to admit how he felt. He deserved it when she pulled away from him, his hand grazing the small of her back as she did so. Instead, he let her move into the crowd and away from him. His excitement in her being here, other than just being here with him, was for her to experience a show like this, and he was going to let her. 

There were maybe ten or so people between them, but she could have been anywhere in this bar and he would have spotted her. He couldn’t help the dumb smile plastered onto his face as he watched her in earnest. 

Her face was bright in the glow of the blueish lights on the stage, it made her blonde hair look brighter, transformed the pink of her sweater a lavender. It seemed impossible to him that she would think for even a second that she could embarrass him. Clearly, she had a misunderstanding of what it meant to be here, what it meant to be part of this culture. That how she looked didn’t matter. Her preppy sweater, her smoothed curls, it didn’t matter. No one would care or look down on her for it. The whole point was to just be yourself, to be who you wanted, and to show who you were however you wanted. If Petunia felt her best the way she was dressed, then that's what worked for her. Severus didn’t care. He just wanted her to feel good, to feel herself. 

A young woman walked back on to the stage, he saw Petunia’s eyebrows raise in curiosity, her face intent on the stage. The woman spoke and the crowd grew quiet, " _ Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard. Well, I think, oh bondage! Up yours! 1-2-3-4. _ " 

The room, quiet seconds before, save for the woman, was instantly loud—exploding with noise. He could feel the vibrations thrumming through him, and he wanted to know how Petunia was feeling. She'd told him that she had never been to a show like this before; he wanted to know if her heart was pounding, if her ears were ringing yet, if, despite the frigid cold outside, there was sweat forming at the nape of her neck, between her breasts beneath her soft-looking sweater. He was suddenly aware of the arousal growing in the pit of his stomach, as he considered how he wanted to rest his cheek against the swell of her chest, see the beads of sweat pooling between her breasts, warm and soft. 

He glanced away from her before deciding to manoeuvre himself to try and get to her, letting himself give in to his wants. The crowd was moving and bumping into one another with excitement and energy. He let the crowd move him towards her, being pushed in one way or another, until he found her, their bodies colliding and his hands inadvertently fell to her waist to steady himself. 

The band raged on, a saxophone loud, the singer crooning about cliches and consumerism. Petunia turned her head slightly at his touch as if it was painful for her to look away from the stage as if she was being pulled back towards it like a magnetic. Their eyes met and he felt something shift between them, and a moment later she turned back, settling her body lightly against him, his hands still resting on her waist. 

They stayed that way—even when pushed to the left or to the front, times where their bodies were pressed closer together, times when she would pull a bit away from him, only to find him again—until the end of the show. When she grabbed his hand and led him through the crowd and outside. 


	4. Chapter 4

**_Famished_ **

_ Everything outside of _

_ the steamed room is perfect. _

_ Nothing is out of place, _

_ and nothing could be better _

_ except that one moment. _

__

_ Where we slip away _

_ for pleasure: _

_ is that what you are? _

_ Are you those few seconds of quivering? _

__

_ And I wonder— _

_ if you’re there to make me feel different _

_ for just a little bit, leaving me famished _

_ at the end of all this.  _

***

  
  


The cold air outside hit Petunia’s warm, red cheeks and the silence was deafening. She could hear her heart beating in her ears. His hand still in hers she dragged him to the side of the building, a small narrow alley between the bar and the vacant building next to it. It was dark, but enough light from the streetlight and the parking lot lights allowed for her to see him.

She had no idea what she was doing, but she felt a bit different now. More assertive. Excited. Enlightened somewhat by what she’d just experienced. She felt as if something had shattered inside her, something that she hadn’t wanted there, to begin with, its shards falling to the ground. 

In the alcove, she leaned against the brick wall, her coat across her arms, as she pressed her head against the wall. The heat from inside wearing off in the cold night air. He stood in front of her, their hands dropping as she tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and she was aware that the remnants of their argument were still fresh in his mind. 

She evaded his question and asked, “Have you been with lots of girls?”

He shook his head and laughed, this certainly was not what he’d been expecting her to ask, “I wouldn’t say lots.” 

She bit her lip curiously, “How many then?”

He shrugged and looked down at his feet, scuffing his boots against the ground. “Does it matter?”

Her brows drew inward, “No. I guess not. I've only ever been with one other person.”

“I wasn't going to ask. You never answered my first question. Are you alright? I’m sorry…” 

Before he could finish, she interrupted him, “Why not? Do you not care how many people I’ve had sex with?”

He looked away from her and looked up at the wall behind her and then at the sky, “It doesn't matter to me, really. It doesn't define you or anything.”

She scoffed, “That's easy for you to say. Being a man.”

He looked timid and she felt a little twinge of joy at pushing him again, this time in the opposite direction of where she’d pushed him earlier. He was often so hard to read, to figure out what he was feeling, “I know. I know. That's why I'm saying I don't care about how many people you have or have not shagged.”

“Well…” she said with a smile, “I still want to know how many girls you’ve been with.”

He laughed, “Why?”

She shrugged, “Honestly, I'm just nosey. Plus, in there—” she gestured with her hand to the bar, “It was very...arousing. All those bodies pressed together.” 

He moved to her side, leaning against the wall next to her. “Fine. Three.”

“Three? That's it? “

“I mean..yeah. How many did you think?”

“I haven’t a clue. But, I lied. I've been with two.”

“Okay, but wait, why did you lie?”

“Because it...it matters...or we're made to think it matters. I don't want it to matter, so I told you. Two. No one else knows that but you.” 

He looked over at her and whispered,“ What other secrets do you have then, Petunia?”

She met his eyes completely, not shying away from him, not right now, not at this moment, “Lots.”

He pushed himself off the wall a bit, she could see the plumes of smoke from his cigarette and his breath mixing in the cold. 

Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, her breath hitched when he leaned over her, pressing his hand against the wall, resting it right above her head. He was hovering over her. Enveloping her. 

“I bet you do. Tell me one. Tell me a secret.” His voice was a whisper and she felt a pang of want in her belly and she wanted nothing more than for him to kiss her right then. 

She took a deep breath, looking away from him for a moment and then back up at him, “I lost my virginity to my former Latin professor. I had just graduated from secondary school.”

“And, you never told anyone that?”

“Nope.” The "p" popped when she said it. “You tell me a secret, Severus.”

He smiled a half-smile, “I never said I had any secrets.”

Brazenly, she let her hands come to his denim jacket and she grabbed onto it, tugging lightly, “We all have secrets. We’re all... What did you say before? Fucked up.” She put emphasis on the “fucked”, letting her teeth skim across her bottom lip, and she watched as his eyes fixated on her mouth. 

“I have one. I’ll tell you if you tell me one more,” he flicked his cigarette to the ground and as he went to crush it with his boot, his thigh rubbed against her, and she felt her stomach churn with desperation.

“Erm. Every few months or so I have the urge to steal something. I never do though.” 

He shook his head, “We all want to do that. Fuck the, man. Right? Lay it to him. Yadda. Yadda. You've something far better in that head of yours. Give it to me, Petunia. A good one.” 

She sighed and shifted a bit, pressing her hip bone against his free hand, and he fingered the material of her skirt. 

She tugged on his jacket again, pulling him closer, “One time, Vernon tied my wrists to the bedposts, and I sort of liked it.”

She saw his Adam's apple bob and he inquired, “Why just sor of?”

“Here’s the secret. It’s because he wasn't you.”

He paused and looked down at the ground. “When was this?”

“When we first met. I’d broken up with him. But he kept coming ‘round trying to get me to take him back. I faltered a bit, as I always do, and I slept with him. It was after the weekend we got coffee. It was the last time I saw him.”

He nodded, “Why me, then? You hardly knew me then.”

“I liked you.”

Curiously he asked, “Why was it me you wanted to be so... vulnerable for?” He let his hand move from her skirt and to one of her hands, still resting on his jacket, and he let it encircle her wrist, gently. 

“I just… I trusted you.” She looked at his hand on her wrist and then looked back up at him, “I trust you now. More than anyone else. I don’t know why. I don’t know if that makes sense, but I do. All I could think about with him was how I was worried, how rough he might be, and I knew that if it were you, I would feel good and safe.”

He licked his lips, “I want to make you feel safe.”

Her lips pursed together as she let out a stream of air slowly, “What about good? Do you want to make me feel good?”

Again he swallowed hard, she could see his Adam’s apple bob, “That’s my secret.”

“Oh?”

“I like you. I like you a lot. I’m not good at talking about it, and I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can give you what you need, but I want to give you whatever I can. So, yeah, I want to make you feel good.” 

He looked away, perhaps worried of what her reaction would be, and so she moved her other hand up to his face, pressing under his chin and nudging his gaze back towards her. As their eyes met again, she let her fingers trace the line of his jaw. Their lips were close now. 

She could feel his breath against her skin, the warm dampness of his. Whispering she said, “I want to make you feel good, too.”

“You can,” he said; their lips almost touching.

“So can you,” she barely moved, almost closing the gap, but not. 

“I know. May I? Now?” he whispered against her lips, and she nodded whispering the word, “Please” back against his.

When their lips finally met, everything seemed as if it were moving at lightning speed—the pulsing between her thighs, the pounding of her heart in her ears, her hands scrambling to grab onto his shoulders, his fingers in her hair, but the kiss was slow and just with their lips. He took her bottom lip between his, trailed his lips against her cheeks before finding her mouth again. Her mouth parted and she slid her tongue against his bottom lip slowly. 

After a while she pulled away breathless, “Take me back to your flat. Please.” 

He nodded and kissed her once more, before taking her hand and walking together to his car. 

***

He felt a bit ashamed of his small flat. The dinginess of it. The simpleness of it. Especially after having been in hers, which had been pristine and warm and full of personality. He had a one-bedroom with a tiny kitchen and a minute sized bathroom. He barely managed a crummy couch and a double bed. Quickly, these thoughts dissipated. She stepped in and dropped her bag on the kitchen counter and shed her coat, slipping off her shoes as well, seemingly comfortable. 

“So did you like the show?”

Her face lit up, elated with exhaustion. She felt physically tired from the noise, her body being shoved around, the noise pounding in her ears, her heart racing. Her voice was breath, she spoke quickly, excitedly, “Absolutely. What a band. What a singer she was. That was...that was unlike anything I’ve experienced.” 

“Yeah. It’s fun.” He bit his lip unsure of how to proceed, did she want him to kiss her again? He didn't have to think long about it as she stepped forward to him, and put her arms around his neck. 

“So, you do like me?”

He laughed softly, “Yeah. I do. Do you like me?”

She shrugged, “Eh. You’re alright.”

“You’re wicked,” he said with a smirk.

“Mhmm,” she pressed up on her toes and kissed his cheek, he could feel her eyelashes against his skin, tickling him. 

In her ear, he whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I knew you knew.” 

She whispered back, “It’s okay. Things aren’t easy. Being open isn’t easy.”

He pulled back and looked at her, staring at her for a moment before speaking. He felt a need for transparency, to be honest with her, open with her, something he hadn’t felt in years. But when she’d looked at him when he came up behind her as the band played, it was in the  _ way _ she looked at him—her gaze was naked, opening herself up to him. Her vulnerability was addictive. 

“Earlier, when I said I wanted to make you feel safe, I meant it. I mean, and not in the traditional sense. Of course, I don’t want to harm you. I want to keep from that. But, what I want is for you to feel comfortable and safe to be yourself all the time. With me.”

She nodded, “I do. That’s why I like you so much. I feel better with you than anyone else, sometimes even more than I do with just myself.”

“Good,” he replied in a low voice.

“Good. Do you still want to make me feel good?” She put emphasis on the word good and raised an eyebrow as she said it. 

“Very much so.” 

“Good,” she said, mimicking his earlier tone, and she leaned up and pressed her lips gently to his again. The kiss quickly deepened with want and need for the other. 

“Make me feel good, Severus,” she whispered against his cheek and a groan against his lips. 

With soft aggression he pushed her against the bed, the backs of her knees hitting the mattress and she sank down onto, sitting. He dropped to his knees, the floor hard and cool. Gently he slipped a hand between her legs and she graciously parted them for him. 

He wasn't going to sleep with her tonight. He wanted to. Fuck. He wanted to, to bury himself in her. He couldn't help but want to see her breasts jiggle as he tugged on her cardigan, the buttons popping off. 

He wanted to envelop her. Leave her smelling of cigarettes and sex. Dirty her up. But he wouldn't. He was going to take his time with her. He was going to show her what it was to be devoured delicately, let her unravel like a spool of thread—coming undone and coming in his hand and on his face. 

He pushed up the hem of her skirt and kissed the inside of her leg by her knee. "You don't have to do that. I don't really think I like…" 

He raised an eyebrow doubtfully, "You don't like your cunt being sucked and licked?"

"I mean, well, I guess it's just…" she trailed off, looking embarrassed and unsure and insecure. He hated that. Hated to see that somewhere along the way someone had made her feel this way. Her prat of an ex, he assumed. 

He lifted up a bit and raised a hand to her cheek, tenderly he said, "If you honestly don't want me to, I won't.” 

She shook her head, “No. It's not that. I don't want you to feel like you have to. It's never really done much for me."

He cleared his throat and bent down to press his lips to her knee sweetly. "If you don't want me to, I won't."

She let out a deep sigh, "Do you want to? Honestly?”

He laughed a bit, "Bloody hell, woman. God. Yes."

A small smile formed on her lips but her eyes still seemed unsure and confused, “But why?”

He bent down again, pressing his cheek to her thigh, she could feel scruff forming on his face. "Because you smell like heaven. I bet you taste even better. I bet you taste like the sweetest hell when you come."

She laughed at this, "I can't come that way...there's…that’s what I’m saying it’s a waste of time…It’s…” She paused at the expression on his face.

“You don’t want me to go down on you because you think you can’t have an orgasm? You think it’s a chore for me?” 

She nodded, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

He smirked, "You can come that way. Would you like me to bring you to a mind-blowing orgasm, Petunia? I would love to, but only if you want me to. If you don’t want me to tonight that’s fine. Whenever you want, though, I’ll be more than happy to oblige. However…”

She gave him a look of interest and he continued, “You may, as The Buzzcocks say, become an orgasm addict. That might pose a few problems, I guess.”

She laughed a sincere and joyful one, one that eased her into relaxing. 

He continued, "Not that I'd mind if you did become one." He smirked again.

Still gnawing on her lip she nodded, ‘‘He never…” Severus knew who he was and listened intently to her as she spoke, “He never wanted to. When he did it was simply to...get things going on my end. You know? Speed it up.”

  
Severus knew his expression was one of disgust and he shook his head, “He’s an idiot. You deserved better than that.”

He got up off of the floor and sat next to her on the bed, “May I kiss you?”

She nodded and he pressed his lips to hers once more. He didn’t care. He wanted to kiss her all night. He felt so young and juvenile, but he didn’t care about that either. 

His lips felt swollen from kissing her and her fingers found the hem of his t-shirt and she let her hands rest against the skin on his stomach. 

Finally, she pulled away, “I want you to.”

He raised an eyebrow, questioning, “You want me to want?”

“Make me come. Right now.”

He laughed and nodded, pressing his lips to her neck and sucking gently on the tender skin there. He let his hands travel over her chest, gently against the swell of her breasts, and he found himself on his knees on the floor once more. Again, looking up at her, worshippingly. 

With another smile he bent down and kissed her thighs, as his fingers slid up to her satin undergarment, letting his thumb graze the damp material at her core, before letting his tongue lick her centre through the soft material. She was so wet, seeping through the satin, and he felt the crotch of his trousers tighten. 

He thought of how fun it would be to try and make her come without touching her skin, just pressing his fingers and tongue to her clit through her undergarment, making her slick with the friction. He'd bring her to hilt before tearing the satin away and ramming into her. He groaned inwardly at his thoughts and redirected his thoughts to just her, slipping his index finger underneath the seam, letting it gently trail her slit.

He listened as her breath hitched. He grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed as he slid his finger inside her slowly. Moaning, one of her hands rested on his shoulder. His lips kissed her inner-thigh and he let his teeth nip against the softness of them, letting his one finger glide slowly in and out of her. 

Slipping out of her, he hooked his finger around the crotch of her undergarments and tugged. She raised her hips and he slid them slowly down her legs, looking up at her, seeing the desire spread across her face. 

Dipping back down, he kissed her clit, letting his lips graze it gently. She was so wet and willing and vocal and how Vernon had never made her come like this was beyond Severus. He was going to make her come and then if she wanted, he was going to make her come again. He slipped two of his fingers inside of her centre, tight and swollen with arousal. He pumped them inside her, as he sucked her hardened clit into his mouth. Quickly he began to lose himself in her, unsure of what he was doing right, forgetting to commit it to memory. He was simply enjoying the moment, being present and only thinking about how her cunt clenched around his fingers, how her gasps increased, and how without realizing the last thing he did, she cried out, her hand squeezing her shoulder, the fingers of her other hand entangled in his hair and pulling gently. He knew she’d come, the heady scent of her orgasm filled his nose, her taste was sweeter and saltier, as he let his tongue lap at her, running along the length of her slit, sucking her labia into his mouth, letting his thumb slowly encircle her clit. He continued this, noting now that it was the back and forth motion of his thumb that sent her over the edge the second time. Feeling the tremble of her thighs, the deep sighs of her orgasm, he kissed her thighs gently and joined her on the bed. 

Her breathing was laboured, her chest heaving. She sat up and took off her sweater, and as she laid back her cream breasts jiggled just as he’d imagined, and his cock strained angrily against his trousers. Feeling teased. He told his cock to shut the fuck up and pulled her into his arms, letting her rest against him. He hadn’t wanted anything but to make her come, but he wasn’t entirely against it when he felt her hand release his throbbing cock from his trousers. His cock was thick and heavy against his stomach, and then her lips found his neck and she took him into her hand. 

Stroking him slowly and he managed to stutter the words, “Petunia, you don’t have—” but she jerked him harder and quicker and he lost the ability to speak. It didn’t take long before he came, spilling onto his shirt, growling as he did. Looking over at her, she seemed utterly pleased with herself. 

With a final kiss to her forehead, he got up, stripping off his soiled shirt and tossing it into a hamper. 

She ended up staying the night with him, waking up early for him to drive her home before her classes. 


	5. Chapter 5

**_Homesick_ **

_ My hair, it smelt like lemons _

_ Your heart, it felt like home. _

_ Imagining you, I can hear your laugh _

_ it thunders, like a timpani, through me. _

_ Your crescent moon lightened me up, _

_ seeping through cracks and crevices— _

_ ones I never even knew existed. _

_ They were caked with thick dust and dried blood, _

_ but you’ve filled them with salt— a stinging, intense burn, _

_ A real, lasting sensation. _

_ The heat you release into me—  _

_ That feels like home, too, rising up  _

_ against flushed skin, salt stinging soft, young lips, _

_ the citrus smell, from the lemon tree, _

_ and you: _

_ You feel just like home. _

***

They hadn’t declared themselves a couple, and both were okay with that. She didn’t mind them not labelled as anything, nor did she feel she needed it. She had no interest in dating anyone else but she liked the notion that she could. That she wasn’t tied to him, not in the way Vernon had made her feel. Things were good between them. Their time together was fun and relaxing. Petunia felt like it was what being with someone was supposed to be like, not spending copious amounts of time worrying about your partner cheating on you, being angry at you, or whatever issue there might be that day. 

She bought a record player for her flat and he would bring her records to listen to. She’d give him books to read. They’d cook together. They simply enjoyed one another’s company.

When they finally had sex, it was unlike anything she’d experienced. It wasn’t that he was a sex god or anything like that; he was a normal man, who sometimes came too quickly, she didn’t always come, nor did she always have earth-shattering orgasms, but it was fun and often silly and always with a level of caring and tenderness. 

She’d asked him once to restrain her hands. He used two ties he had found in the back of his closet to do so. As he pulled the silky material around her wrist, they laughed about the cheeky cats with sunglasses on one of the ties and the Christmas baubles on the other, he told her that his boss had given them to him, and she teased that he could tell him that they’d finally been put to good use. The sex was, as she had imagined, the complete opposite from what it had been with Vernon. He wasn’t aggressive in a dark unbidden way; he was tender and careful—he was exactly what she had wanted and needed him to be. 

For her, it was necessary to be with someone like that right now, someone who wasn’t taking advantage of her, wasn’t using her for sex or using her at all. Someone who didn’t see women as a thing to be accomplished, as Vernon had, another notch on his belt. 

Severus just saw her. 

Her favourite night was the night he was quoting a film, some stupid comedy he’d seen. They were kissing and naked, him on top of her. Suddenly, he quoted a line from it. Something jarring his memory and the two began laughing. Not at what he said, but the comfort between them. At the silliness. At the light smacks to his arm when he teased her. At his pouting when she teased him.

Petunia didn’t feel like she was Petunia Evans when she was with him. She felt like someone else altogether. 

What it was, though, was that Petunia was finally allowing herself to be herself. Just as he was being himself. It was something they’d brought out in one another.

This was what made things so unbelievably difficult for her when they did finally go to shit.

***

Petunia sat in her flat’s bathroom with an absurdly expensive pregnancy test she was supposed to urinate on and then wait at least half an hour to look at. 

She held the cup between her legs and peed, missing the cup and getting her thumb wet with urine. Finally, she got it right. Carefully she used the dropper to place three drops of her pee into the test tube. She glanced at the directions again and shook the vial for ten seconds. 

The test hadn't even given her any results yet and she already felt like crying, she knew that she was pregnant. Unlike her sister and other friends she had known growing up, her period was never late, it was never irregular. It always ticked on like clockwork. 

It also wasn’t just that her period was late, she just knew. It was a weird and cliche thing that she’d heard women say her whole life: you just know when you are pregnant. She’d always chalked that up to complete and utter bullshit, but here she was. Certain as the sky is blue that she was pregnant. 

Her period was now a week late. When it was two days late, she rested her hand against her belly as she sat in the tub, and the thought struck her. It was as simple as thinking  _ I’m hungry _ or  _ I’m thirsty _ . She thought, without premeditation, without any real awareness:  _ I’m pregnant.  _ Even though she knew better than to convince herself that she wasn’t, she let herself believe that her period would begin. After a week, however, she knew that she was, the test would only concretize it. 

  
They’d been together— _ no, not together _ , seeing one another for four months now, three periods. The fourth one was now woefully absent.

She left the vial on the back of the toilet, washed her hands, and left the room. She had two hours. Two long hours to wait and see if the dark-brown donut appeared.

She promptly walked out of her bathroom and paced her flat, she washed some dishes—all two of them; she walked into her room to try and figure out what she was going to wear that evening. She and Severus were supposed to go to dinner and to see a film. 

Perhaps, she naively thought, it would be the best evening ever when the test read negative. The stress immediately alleviated and knocking her period back on track. She had been somewhat stressed with school, paired with her period being late, and didn’t stress cause periods to sometimes be even later? She let the false-logic knock around her brain hopefully as she set out the dress she wanted to wear, the weather turning a touch warmer now. 

She walked back into the bathroom and stood at the threshold of the door. Peering over at the test, she tried to see if she could see the donut or lack-of donut from where she was standing. She couldn't. 

Resigning herself to just walking in, she walked over to it and looked at the vial, gleaming with its brown donut-shaped circle. She snatched it up and stared at it. Pregnant. She was pregnant. 

She sat on the toilet and wept until she heard him knock at her door. Grateful the door was unlocked, she heard him open it, asking for her. 

“Petunia?” he called, and she found she still was unable to speak.

He found her in her bathroom and the look on his face registered that he knew something was wrong but had no idea what.

“Are you alright?” he inquired. 

She shook her head and handed them the vial.

“What’s this?” he asked, looking at it, and she knew he had to know what it was, had to know what it meant, and she was suddenly angry at his ignorance in it all. He wasn’t stupid. She didn’t want him to act so unbelievably daft now.

Her voice was shrill when she finally spoke, “I’m pregnant. Pregnant.”

_ Oh _ was all he said and this made her even angrier.

She glared at him, feeling a variety of emotions seething beneath the surface. “That’s it?”

He pressed his lips together and gave a sort of unsure shrug, “I’m not sure what you want me to say. You seem distraught. What—”

She cut him off, her words sharp, “You think?”

He took a deep breath through his nostrils and nodded, “I’m sorry. That was obviously the wrong thing to say. Listen—” 

She cut him off again, not willing to hear whatever he had before she said what she had kept thinking over and over this past week, “We cannot have a baby, Severus. I am still in school. You are just an electrician. I want to finish school. I don’t want this. I can’t.” She looked up at the ceiling, grasping for words, trying to figure out how to explain it all.

He paused and took a deep breath, “Okay. I know. I understand all that.”

Still looking at the ceiling she said, her voice cracking some, “We can’t be parents yet. I don’t want to be a mum yet.”

Slowly he spoke as if trying to convey his understanding to her, “That’s fine, Petunia.”

  
There was silence in the bathroom for some time. Petunia wasn’t sure how long, maybe just ten minutes or maybe half an hour.

Finally, she reached over and took the test from him, tossing it into the rubbish bin. 

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “There’s a women’s clinic. I’ll call Monday morning.” 

Pausing she looked at him and said, “I’m going to have an abortion. Okay? I cannot have a baby right now.” 

**  
  
**

***

Severus thought that perhaps she hadn't thought long enough on the matter, but who was he to say. He knew that she must have known for longer than just these few minutes, that she had maybe suspected it for a while now, how long, he didn’t know. Considering this, he realized that maybe she had thought long enough on it.

He agreed with her. Of course, he did. He was, like she said, just an electrician and not a wealthy one, it wasn’t as if he ran his own company. He was poor and she was in school and what were two people like them supposed to do with a baby? Better yet, what was someone like him supposed to do with a baby? 

He cleared his throat and stepped further into the bathroom. “What’s that cost?”

“I’m not sure,” she said quietly.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll pay for whatever you need me to. This is my fault. I’m so stupid. I shouldn't have ever not used a condom.”

She shook her head at him, “It’s not just you. I was stupid as well. We were stupid. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

She said this but she didn’t look like she believed a word she was saying, and this made his head hurt with worry. Silence fell between them again and eventually he moved towards her, her still sitting on the toilet, and he wrapped his arms around her. 

This was what did it. What seemed to unravel her. He suddenly felt bad for hugging her, and he wondered if he shouldn’t have if he should have just left her alone. He didn’t know. 

She pressed her face against his stomach as he stood next to her while she sat and she began to sob. Heavy hard sobs. Moments later she quickly got up and dropped to her knees and vomiting into the toilet bowl. He reached over and held her hair back, rubbing her back mindlessly, his brain trying to wrap itself around everything that had just occurred. 

He was certain that she wasn’t having any sort of nausea from the pregnancy yet, and he knew that she had made herself sick with crying, snot draining down into her throat, gagging her—her stomach turning sour. 

He hated himself for this. For having any part of her pain. This was why love was stupid, he thought. If he’d just left her alone. If he’d never asked her for coffee. She wouldn't be pregnant. She wouldn't be hurting. She wouldn’t be fucking vomiting into the toilet. 

Finally, she let him help her up, and he led her to her bed where they laid down together.

He brushed her hair, damp from her tears, behind her ear, and unexpectedly, she kissed him.

Her kiss was acidic and tasted vaguely of bile and salt, but the taste barely registered to him when she kissed him, as it was frantic and needy and he didn’t think she’d ever kissed him with such desperation before, clinging to him. When she straddled him, him deep inside of her, he grabbed onto her hips, and thrust into her until she eventually shattered, rolling off of him, and falling asleep. 

Lying beside her, he found sleeping evaded him. He let himself consider the possibility that she might decide not to have an abortion, that in the morning, in the light of day, she might see things differently. He knew this wasn’t his decision, and he knew he’d support her in whatever she chose. The notion of being a father scared him. His own father had been so shit at being a parent, but he’d also been shit at loving his mother, and Severus thought that maybe he could do an okay job of that. She rolled over in her sleep and faced him, and she looked so peaceful, much more so than she had just hours before, crying as she puked—snot and bile on her chin. He loved her. Looking at her, admiring her, he found he adored her, every bit of her, and he seeing her so upset, in so much pain, a pit began to form in his belly, one that ate at him and told him that he’d ruined it. He’d hurt her, even if he hadn’t meant to. 

***

She had to wait a few weeks to have the abortion. It felt odd, having to wait, living her life as if everything was normal when it wasn’t. Going to class. Reading for class. Writing for class. 

She still saw Severus, and he tried to make things seem normal. He was often so sweet and he’d finally opened up, finally told her something she’d wanted desperately to hear for so long now from someone, anyone. 

They were walking in the park, hand-in-hand. She was quiet, thinking about a poem she’d read earlier that day. 

Stopping he said, “Tell me what’s on your mind? Talk to me. Please.”

Looking down at his hands she shrugged, “I was just thinking about this poem I read. It’s an American poet. It’s fairly new. My poetry professor had a copy of her work. It just really struck me. You know?”

“Tell me about it,” he was almost pleading with her to say anything to resume some sense of normalcy.

“It’s called “Phenomenal Woman”. Maya Angelou, the poet, she...in it she exudes such confidence, such power. I don’t understand how to do that. How to be so sure of myself. I don’t think I’ve ever been that way. I don’t think I ever will. I’m...weak.”

Severus shook his head, “You’re not. At all. You’re...look…” He took a deep breath and continued, “ I love you, Petunia. It’s things like that that make me love you. Your thoughts. Your mind. Your perception of the world. It’s all there and, yet, you don’t see yourself the way you see the world at all. You should.” 

“You love me?” she asked, a laugh underneath her voice.

“Yeah. I do. I love you,” he licked his lips nervously and squeezed her hand.

She dropped his hand and pulled her hair up to let it drop again. She smiled and nodded, “Let’s head back. I’m tired.”

They walked in silence. The words she hadn’t said screaming loudly between them. She had wanted so desperately for someone to truly love her, to love her how he seemed to, to love her authentically and wholly for who she was and what she thought, but now she found she couldn't respond.

He didn’t bring it up again nor did he tell her he loved her again, but for several days before her appointment, he insisted that he go with her that Friday morning, but she kept saying no: she made it out as if it was a waste of his day, that she didn’t need him there, but she did, she just wasn’t willing to admit it.

He finally stopped asking and, as the days passed, she found it harder to kiss him, to hold his hand when they walked down the street, to think of him. Slowly, without intending to, she turned cool towards him—the only thing she knew to do to make it easier on herself. 

****  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Note: This chapter deals with Petunia having an abortion. There are moments where there is graphic blood. If this is not something you want to read. Please skip ahead to the next chapter.)

**_When Flowers Bloom Too Soon_ **

_ I sat in a fake zen garden, _

_ Cheap sand and plastic rocks. _

_ I sat in a fake garden, _

_ Waxed leaves and dyed petals. _

_ I sat in a garden, _

_ Thriving plants and thriving roots. _

_ I sat in a waiting room, _

_ Wooden benches and too many plants. _

_ I did this—  _

_ I did this to deflower my motherhood.  _

***

Her hands were shaking. Alone in the waiting room, she clasped her hands together on her lap, as she shut her eyes, taking slow breaths. 

Stupidly she'd shoved a notebook and a collection of poems in her pocketbook. She thought she would read. That seemed laughable now. 

Moments before there was another woman in there, but she was called back, leaving Petunia in solitude. 

Everything felt sterile and stagnant in the room. The pictures on the wall, the brightly coloured seats, the soft music playing, it all seemed so unbelievably unnecessary. No one sitting in this admired the generic art, cared about the colour of the seats. Perhaps, the music was appreciated to an extent, it was helping her to not hear the chaotic beating of her heart. 

Ten or so minutes ago, a nurse had given her a small blue pill.  _ To calm your nerves.  _ She'd told her. She was ready for them to kick in. 

When she'd scheduled the appointment, she was told that someone could be with her, at least before she went back, but she wasn't willing to ask Severus to come with her, and the only other person she thought to ask was Lily, but she wouldn't dare. She couldn't. 

She knew both would be supportive, both would be there for her, but she was unwilling to be so vulnerable, to be so open and needy. 

Petunia was used to doing things on her own, and this would be no different. 

To ask Severus was to show him that she needed him. She did not. She couldn't. Especially not here, especially not now. To ask Severus was to imply that she thought their relationship was something different than what it was. To ask him would make her feel as if they were a couple. And they weren't. They hadn't determined that they were a couple. 

Her heart hurt. It seemed to throb like a hangnail, one you've picked at so much that the skin is red and inflamed, hurting in such a way that you could feel your pulse on it. A constant reminder. She knew that the chance for a relationship with him was gone. That this pregnancy, this baby, this abortion would crumble whatever they had, whatever they could have had. 

Since discovering she was pregnant several weeks ago, since telling him, there was a shift between them. Whether it was her or whether it was him, she didn't know. She did know that it was hard to look at him at times. There was something soft in his dark eyes that hurt the most, as if she could see the darkness melting into something warm. 

She couldn't help but think about the fact that the cells furiously working inside her uterus were part of him. That if left to it, those cells would turn into something small and vulnerable that was equal parts her and him. 

She wasn't struggling with the abortion itself. She knew she did not want to have a baby right now. She knew that she  _ couldn't _ have a baby right now. The decision was almost immediate for her, the moment the test showed positive, she knew what she was going to do. 

What she struggled with was the enormity of it all. The potential inside her body at that moment. The potential for more between her and Severus, as well as the overwhelming lack of potential. 

Part of her knew that had this been Vernon, she would have gone through with it, that he would have insisted. They would have married quickly and that was it. But it was Severus. He was an electrician with little money. He wanted to go to school. She was in school. They couldn't be parents, not now. Years from now, they would hate each other--their lives miserable, as he worked his arse off, as she stayed at home, as they bickered and fought, secretly regretting the child they couldn't help but love dearly. 

She buried her face in her hands, and, regardless of what happened, it wasn't what she wanted in the end. What she wanted was to love him, to be with him without this sore staring them in the face. She had two options: The first was that she'd have the baby, they would marry, and then they'd resent each other in five years for what each of them had given up, the other life they could have had without the pregnancy. The second was what she was doing; she would have an abortion, and she'd lose him, as she couldn't be with him knowing the secret they shared, the secret growing inside her, the secret she destroyed. 

In the end, she'd rather lose him, and she couldn't let herself love him. She couldn't. She couldn't. 

***

In the end, it was worse than she thought. In a few months, however, it'd be something she'd struggle to even recall. She had heard that when women have children, they often forgot what birth is actually like—the belief is that it's biological, that this flaw in memory is what allows women to want to have another baby, to go through birth again. 

She'll wonder if her mind did the same. Had she tricked it, her body unaware of what was actually happening, it knew that it contracted for some time and then there was nothing in her uterus. So, as the months slipped into years, she wouldn't fully remember the experience. 

Petunia would recall bits and pieces. She'd recall a sound, loud and crass; she'd recall crying, perhaps from pain or something entirely different, likely both; she'd recall being given ginger ale and biscuits that children loved; she'd recall vomiting them up, being sick, and being told that she needed someone to take her home, they couldn't let her leave right then being sick and all. 

She shook her head solemnly, "I don't have a lift home." 

"No one, dear? I'm sure that's not the case," an older nurse said.

"It is," Petunia's voice was quiet but firm and she gave the nurse a pleading look, begging her to understand. 

The nurse rested her hand on Petunia's shoulder and nodded. "Very well. It's just after one now. You'll have to stay until we close. I have to make sure you're alright to leave on your own if you won't call someone. Alright?"

She nodded and sat back in the seat, watching as the nurse left her more drink and biscuits. The sight of it made her stomach turn again, so she shut her eyes. She didn't want to go home right then anyway. 

She had told Severus she was going. He had wanted to come, to drive her there and back, to do whatever she needed, but she had said no. Been insistent. Been almost cruel about it. It hadn't been that she wanted to be cruel, she just couldn't think of a way to get him to let it go. Finally, he'd conceded. Telling her that the offer would continue to stand, but it had been evident on his face that he knew she wasn't going to ask anything of him.

Part of her—the part that drove her insecurities, the part that left her with her few friends and one disastrous serious relationship—believed that their relationship was over, that he wouldn't want anything to do with her now, and so she let her walls, ones he'd quickly helped her knockdown, back up, shut herself off. Cold and callus. 

When she was finally able to leave, she was exhausted, she was in pain, and she wanted a 

hot bath. She wasn’t allowed to take a bath. A shower would suffice. Getting into the car, she slid into the cold seat and pressed the base of her palms into her eyes, as if she were trying to push the tears back in, forcing her body to take them back. Just take them back. She didn’t deserve to cry. This was her choice. Her decision. And, yet, cranking up the car, it didn’t matter how badly she didn’t want to have a baby, how right she knew this decision was, it still hurt. It was still hard. It was still painful. 

She went home and changed the pad the nurse had given her. The nurse had given her a handful more. It was different than a normal period, or at least, she thought it was. Maybe it was in her head. She didn’t know. The blood was thick and bright. It was a sloughing of blood like a period. It was clotted, it seemed. After what felt like hours she willed herself to get in the shower, trying not to look down at her legs, the thin streak of blood running down them. Finally, emotionally incapable of stabilizing herself any longer, she sat down in the tub, the water of the shower beating against her shoulder. She let her head rest on her knees and shut her eyes, not wanting to see the way the blood, diluted with soap and water, swirled down the drain. Eventually, the water turned cold and she turned the taps off, getting up, cleaning up, and lying down on the couch. She didn’t want to be in her bed. Her bedroom reminded her of Severus. Reminded her of the night she knew she loved him. 

She’d come home after they’d been at his place, and she lied on her bed and hummed the song he had played for her, she had laughed to herself in the darkness of her bedroom and her heart felt lighter than it maybe ever had. She thought of how his face had lit up when he sang and how it had lit hers up too.

They’d gotten dinner and were sitting in his flat. He always seemed so embarrassed when they first walked through the door, but she didn’t care in the least about the size of his flat or the things he had in it. 

She’d curled up on the end of the couch and he’d sat on his rickety coffee table with an acoustic guitar in his hand. She’d commented that the table might break and he shrugged saying that the table might be better broken. 

He began to strum on his guitar. Their eyes met and he grinned, “Do you mind if I play you a song? I’ve got one in mind just for you. I’ve been practising.” 

He winked and she felt herself blush. They’d had sex, he’d had his face buried between her thighs, and yet his winking at her, him singing to her made her blush. 

When he began, the melody he strummed was soft and sweet and slow, and Petunia was certain that Severus, tight-lipped about his emotions Severus, was going to sing her a love song. She began to panic just a bit. How should she react? Even though in a few hours she’d known she loved him, she didn’t know it then. Then she was still just enjoying the lightness of their relationship, the playfulness. 

She held her breath when he began to sing. His voice was so low and warm, if you bottled it, it’d be a thick molasses against the sepia glass.

“ _ Well….you tried it just for once. Found it alright for kicks. _ ” He shut his eyes and he sang and continued, “ _ But now you found out. That it's a habit that sticks _ .”

He opened his eyes now and smiled devilishly at her, “ _ You're an orgasm addict. You’re an orgasm addict. _ ” 

While it had in no way been what hse had been expecting, she realized it was better. She peeled into laughter, tears forming in her eyes, laughter causing her breathing to be laboured.

She leaned forward and slapped his arm playfully, “You’re an arse,” she said with a laugh.

He stopped his strumming and looked at her shocked, “Why?”

“I thought you were going to play a love song,” she teased.

“That is a love song,” he laughed.

They’d laughed for hours about that, and that evening, alone in her bed, she realized, quite suddenly, that she was in love with him. It wasn’t something she was prepared for. She’d been so caught up in everything else, that she hadn’t realized that the whole time she had been falling completely in love with him.

So right now, right now she couldn’t lie in her own bed, she couldn’t be reminded of how much she loved him, of the night he took her into his arms when she found out she was pregnant, all the nights before that and the few after; when she’d laid bare for him, given herself to him so willingly; how even after he’d told her he loved her, after she didn’t say it back, he still tenderly took her into his mouth, kissed and caressed her until she came. She knew she’d hurt him when she didn’t say it back, but she doubted it. Part of her was certain that he was only saying it because of everything else, because of the pregnancy, because this was emotionally jarring and difficult and telling her that he loved her was what he thought he was supposed to do. It would have been different if he’d said it before she got pregnant, but he hadn’t, and so it didn’t matter. 

Finally, curled up on her couch, she began to doze off into what she imagined would be a fitful sleep. Right as she felt her body slip into sleep, she heard a knock on her door. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you skipped the previous chapter, Petunia has the abortion. Struggles with it. Is not allowed to leave due to being physically ill. She waits all day and gets to go home. Petunia reflects on a night in which Severus sings her a silly song and she realizes that she loves him.)
> 
> (Note: Petunia’s poem for this chapter is graphic concerning blood.)

**_Cleansing_ **

_ Kneeling on the crips floor of a cool-white tub _

_ Pools and streams of red surround me.  _

_ (AndallIhear isthatawfulsuckingsound breakingeverythingup) _

_ like a garbage disposal _

_ Your short life and my too-long life.  _

_ Go ahead and break my ribs.  _

_ Pull me apart like a cotton ball,  _

_ Let the red drip slowly, tauntingly, mockingly. _

_ Scalding water beating on my back,  _

_ Blood spread all over my thighs, and I _ _   
_ _ scrub them furiously, as if scrubbing out a stain. _

_ Fingering the stringy lumps between the pads of my fingers, _

_ I bust up the clots, desperate to rid myself of all  _

_ That is left, to be as empty as I feel— _

_ to wash it all away.  _

***

Opening the door, she found him standing there in the hallway with the saddest bouquet of flowers in his hand. He had been looking at the floor when she opened up and as the light from inside hit his face, he looked up. His eyes were red and tired, and he smelled of beer. 

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" she asked irritably. 

Without a word he held out the bouquet, and, as she took the flowers from it, he turned around and walked away.

“Where are you going?” Her voice was a touch too loud for this late at night and she immediately lowered it, she didn’t want to disturb her neighbours.

He turned around, and she stared at him as he stood there; the gloomy dimness of the hallway made his face look solemn, much older than he was. In this type of light, every line of sorrow was exposed, each crease of remorse, every angle of agony—the way his forehead crinkled, the corners of his eyes tight, the sharp set of his jaw, clenched. 

Despite her effort to be quiet, when he began to speak, it was evident that he wasn’t considering the time or her neighbours, it was as if, to him, there was nothing else in the world but the two of them. 

His hands were shoved into the pockets of his trousers, his deep voice echoing in the hallway, “I waited here all day for you.”

“You weren’t here earlier,” she said haughty. 

“Yeah, well...I went to the pub. I was...angry, I suppose. But then I realized I needed to come back, I needed to see you, even if you didn’t want to see me.

She shut her eyes momentarily. Her entire body ached and there was an incessant pinching in her lower abdomen that told her that when she moved again there would be a slush of blood from her body. 

“Why? Why would you sit her all day waiting?” she inquired, pressing the pads of her thumb and index fingers to her eyelids. 

His voice was suddenly much louder, “Why? Honestly?”

“Yes. Why? Why would you sit outside my flat all day waiting for me? What for?” 

He stepped forward three thoughtful steps. “Because you told me nothing,” his jaw clenched a touch and she could hear him straining through the words. “I needed to know that you were alright. I thought you’d call or something.” 

“Why would I call you, Severus?” She knew how cruel this sounded, but she could hardly stop herself. 

He recoiled at her worst and it took him a moment to respond. “Why were you gone all day? It’s not...there’s no way it took all day. Did something go wrong? Are you ok?” 

“No. It went...as planned. I did get a bit sick after and was light-headed. They. They just wouldn’t let me leave by myself. I told them,” she paused and began to speak more quickly, “I told them I had—I had no one to call and they made me wait until the clinic closed before I could leave.”

“You had  _ no one _ to call?” his voice had moved fluidly from anger to pain in one sentence—it was weaker, softer—hurt. 

“Again, why would I call you?” 

“Because you’re...we...forget it. I came because I was worried. That’s all. I missed half a day of work. I sat there and waited and…”

She interrupted his ramblings, “What did you bring me flowers for? Were you trying to make some grand romantic gesture? Now? If so, that’s quite pathetic. Let me knock a girl up and bring her flowers  _ after _ she has an abortion. What a love story that is.” She knew this was unfair, she felt it in her bones, but she was bitter and tired and in pain and so angry with the world. 

Above him, he stared at a spot on the ceiling, he’d brought his face to his hands and rubbed his palms against his cheeks. “That’s not—Goddammit, Petunia, you know that’s not what I was doing.”

Her uterus pinched, no  _ contracted _ , that’s what the nurse had said it would do and she scrunched up her face in pain. 

Stepping forward once again, he reached out for her, his arm extended, his fingers close to touching her arm, and she longed to go to him, to let him pull her into his arms, to be held, but she couldn’t. Whatever emotions he was showing her, whatever vulnerability he was allowing was just circumstantial. It didn’t mean anything, and once his guilt or whatever it was he was feeling subsided, he’d likely leave. 

She could feel hot tears filling her eyes, and she shut them again before shaking her head in a definitive “no”, turned and walking back into her flat, shutting the door, and leaving him outside.

***

Severus stared at her door— her closed-door, shutting him out, and he tightened his hands into fists, raising them to bang against the door, but he didn’t. Instead, he rested his fists gently on the chill of the wood and leaned his forehead against it. 

He didn’t know what to do. 

He had spent his entire afternoon sitting on the floor by her door, every time he heard the elevator chime, he would quickly glance up expecting to see her. He left at one point to get flowers, hoping that when he returned she might be home. Why the idea struck him, he didn’t know. Whether or not the flowers were supposed to be loving or romantic or an apology or perhaps sympathy, he didn’t fucking know. He was just suddenly aware that he  _ wanted _ to buy her flowers, that she deserved flowers. 

Since she’d told him she was pregnant, anytime he thought of her, his heart ached with joy and anguish. He hadn’t meant to hurt her in all this. What they had between them had started so innocently, so silly and juvenile, but he knew that if she had wanted to have the baby if she had wanted to get married, he would have done it in a heartbeat, even if he didn’t believe in marriage, even if he thought marriage was an institution weakened and diminished by consumerism and the government. 

None of that mattered if it was what she had wanted. 

He had allowed himself to consider it, to imagine himself as a father. He would be different than his own, that he was certain of—he was self-aware enough, reflective enough, smart enough to not repeat his father’s mistakes. But she hadn’t really let him entertain the idea of marrying her or having a baby, she had her plans, she had her future, and he respected that, admired that, and he wasn’t going to let him and his stupid sperm get in the way of what she deserved to have. 

He had thought, however, that he would still have her at the end of all this. 

Of course, he knew that he didn’t understand it—what she had just gone through, what she had been going through for several weeks now, but he had hoped that some part of her would need him or would at least want him around still. A voice in his head was insistent on reminding him that she would probably hate him after this, would want nothing to do with him, and would see him for what he really was—a burden, a waste, a problem. 

Despite her insistence that  _ she _ didn’t want to have a baby, that she wanted to graduate, that she wanted to teach and write, part of him was certain, just certain, that if it had been someone else, perhaps that rich-fuck Vernon, someone who wasn’t a lowly electrician, squirrelling away money to go to school one day—his pipe dream, then she would have not had the abortion, that she would have decided to have a baby with that person. 

He didn’t want to think that, didn’t want to be so insecure, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t that she was against having a baby; she was against having a baby with him, against marrying him—the dirty, scum-bag, trash, poor twat that he was. 


	8. Chapter 8

**_In Which I Quote Maya Angelou:_ **

_ “I’m grateful to be a woman. I must have done something great in another life.” _

_ Hours piled onto days piled onto weeks piled onto months  _

_ and I had convinced myself that being a woman was nothing  _

_ but pain and suffering filled with fruitless ambition and desire.  _

_ Everything is suffering. From that, we push up through  _

_ the tundra and face the sun, and I watch  _

_ the tree outside my window bud leaves that flourish  _

_ into a bright verdant even after a dire winter. _

***

Petunia spent the next six months in a daze.

She squeaked by in her classes, and she felt grateful for the summer months with no lectures, no required reading, no essays to write. She had the time to read and write what she wanted, and so she wrote a lot and read a lot and listened to a lot of music. Some of it hurt to listen to, as some of it reminded her painfully of Severus. That was just something that would have to come with the music though, as she wasn't willing to give up the bands she'd come to love, come to find solace in. 

She went through the motions of day-to-day life, when one day she was struck with the need to see her sister, that she wanted to see her.

Seeing Lily allowed her to remember that, despite everything, she did adore her. That when she stripped away everything she had clung to before, she found it easier to love Lily, to appreciate her. Lily was who she was, she wasn’t a bad person nor was Petunia, they were simply different, which now made Petunia love her even more. 

She didn’t speak to anyone or tell anyone about what truly happened with Severus, about the baby, and the abortion. Her need to keep her most personal things close hadn’t changed entirely. She was still private, but she tried to be more open about her thoughts and her feelings in other situations. When Lily inquired about Vernon, Petunia told her, confessed all the things he’d said and done, how awful he had been. It felt good to be honest with her sister and with herself about those things. 

  
She had considered telling her about Severus; how she loved him, how her body ached for him all hours of the day—sleep wasn’t even a reprieve from the ache. In her dreams, she’d constantly try to get to him, try to find him, but she never could. 

When she'd shut the door to her flat, the wilted sad flowers in her hand, knowing he was on the other side, she had wanted to call him back and when she didn't, she had wanted to call him in the morning, to apologise for being cruel; she wanted to cry to him about how hard the day before had been, how hard the weeks preceding had been. She wanted to tell him that she loved him so much, and that one day she did want to marry him and perhaps even have children with him, that her decision didn’t have anything to do with him and what he believed he lacked; it was her decision based on what she wanted for herself and based on what she needed. She needed to finish her degree, to write more, to try and publish things, to maybe teach poetry or literature or both. 

She was just beginning to figure out who she was, and she knew that right now it wasn’t being a mother. Part of it, the way she'd shut him out, was due to the fact that she knew she needed to figure it out on her own. She needed to grieve and grow by herself. 

Enough time had passed now to where she knew if she saw him, she’d go to him, embrace him, and tell him the truth—that she had loved him the whole time, that she was always going to love him. 

Now that her classes were over for the summer, she found that she could truly enjoy going to the library, perusing the stacks. As she began to leave one evening, a blue flier, buried beneath others on the bulletin board, caught her eye. She tugged it out of its place and her heart leapt: it was for a show at The Underground that evening. A small smile played on her lips as she folded the slip of paper, something in her wanting desperately to go to a show again.

  
  


***

Leaving Petunia on the other side of her door all those months ago, he didn’t know what to expect, what to think moving forward, but he realized as he walked down the hallway that there was the strong possibility that he would never see her again. That what had passed between them passed between them. Leaving them both empty shells, missing a critical piece—not the pregnancy, not the baby they decided not to have, but one another. 

He tried twice to get in touch with her. He rang her when he knew she was likely home, as to ensure he didn’t miss her. He told himself that maybe she hadn’t been home when he called, but he doubted that. She simply didn’t want to talk to him. If she did, she would have called him or found some way to be in touch, he was certain of that. 

Months passed. Winter melted into spring, the flowers pushed through hard ground, no longer frigid, and spring bounded warmly into the summer.

Severus didn’t care for summer; he found that the heat was oppressive. 

His flat didn’t cool well, and he decided to go for a walk when the evening came, for the fresh air and fresh thoughts. He needed to get out of the small space, he needed to try and not think about her. He needed to just get over her. Get over what they had. Get over it all. Move on. She didn't want him. Whatever it was that had drawn her to him had dissipated. 

In spite of telling himself this, he still missed her with every fibre of his being. He tried to carry on as usual: He went to work and he saved money. He believed that he finally had enough to pay for a year of school if necessary, and he spent the first half of summer working on and finally submitting his application. 

He waited for what felt like forever to hear back from the university. When he finally got his acceptance, he found that the only person he wanted to tell, was the one person he couldn’t tell, as she wasn’t there. 

Walking aimlessly, he found himself at the park where he had foolishly told her he loved her. 

He so desperately just wanted to see her, even if it was just for one last time. He just wanted to see her, to tell her he was truly sorry for everything he had and hadn’t done, that he hadn’t told her love her earlier, that he hadn’t been there when she got home that day, that he hadn’t worn a goddamn condom, that he wasn’t rich enough for her to have been comfortable to have a baby with him, that he wasn’t smart enough to have gone to school before, and, ultimately, that he wasn't what she needed. 

He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that she made him a better man, a harder worker, a more thoughtful person, a person who believed in love and saw the purpose in it. He at least wanted to thank her for that, for allowing him to see that two people can love one another properly and wholly. 

He checked the time on his wrist, if he left now he'd make it in time see the show at The Underground. It had been a while since he’d been to one. 

Sighing, he got up, finally resigning himself to his fate—despite how much he loved her, it wasn’t what she needed, and he loved her enough to respect that, to move on, to not reach out to her. 

***

Petunia was amazed at how many people this venue could cram into its space. It was one of those rare shows where a band that had gotten successful came back around to its roots to play, so it was stuffed to the gills with people. It was loud and hot, especially in the sweltering heat of the summer. 

While there, she didn’t look for him. She told herself she wouldn't. There were too many people, anyway. If he was there, which it was likely he was, she wouldn’t spot him in this crowd. 

She settled in near the back of the crowd, her hair pulled up high, beads of sweat already forming at the nape of her neck. The crowd was so raucous she could barely hear the singer, the guitar, any of it. 

Half-way through the set, she looked to her left and ten or so people over she saw him. She felt her pulse quicken. Here he was. Just there. Standing there. Had he been there the whole time? Had he noticed her? Right there. Part of her. Part of her heart living outside her chest. For so long she’d forced this part of her heart into the pocket of her dress, not letting it free, tucking it there, letting her hand absently roll it beneath her fingers, letting it hit her thigh as she walked. Hidden and safe, but not living and beating inside her. 

The tempo of the next song sped up, much faster than what was on the record, and the singer began to sing. As the song ended, the singer crooning the last verse, almost as if an incantation, Severus turned his head and his eyes met hers instantly, holding her gaze to the end of the song:  _ “Know I'll never find a girl like you / But in my heart I'll always be true / Yeah yeah, she's the girl / The best girl in the whole wide world / When I see her on the street / You know she makes my life complete / And you know I told you so/ She's the one, she's the one. She's the one.” _

The room was silent for a moment between songs, wiping off sweat, changes in guitars, replacing a broken drumstick, and she walked towards him, pushing through people, muttering “Sorry” over and over, until she got to him. 

He grabbed her hand when she reached him and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, resting his head against her shoulder—both comforted by the presence of the other, the familiar scent of skin, the tender feeling of needles and pins dancing against her lower back with elation. 

The air felt all at once heavy and light—ethereal, as if there was magic in the air; magic that had pulled them together, to this space, this moment, this time. 

  
  
  



	9. Epilogue

**_Smells From the Hog Farm_ **

_ I _

_   
_ _ The smells from the hog farm, _

_ the meat and the manure,  _

_ the stench of money to be made, _

_ reminds me of the winter we wilted. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ II _

_   
_ _ The seeds in the garden, that my _ _   
_ _ husband tends to, have _ _   
_ _ sprung up and spread— _ _   
_ _ covering. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Little, pale-white flowers are a  _ _   
_ _ promise to fruits and vegetables, ripe and plump, _ _   
_ _ from water, and soil, and fertilizer. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ III _

_   
_ _ I’m reminded of how all things must be _ _   
_ _ dug up, and buried,  _

_ tended to and cared for, _ _   
_ _ before anything can begin to be harvested. _

  
  
  
  


**_Our Daughter: A Tuesday Evening_ **

_ Spirals of springtime curls _

_ hues of pollen—butter and gold.  _

_ Specks of sun-kissed freckles _

_ hues of roots—cream and tan.  _

_ Shades of soft irises _

_ hues of the raven—obsidian and ink.  _


End file.
